Evan Hunter - Sons

There are some who say it is carried by dust, there are others who say it is not a disease at all but really a contamination of the air caused by the use of so much poison gas in Europe. Some say it is caused by a bacillus, and others say by a virus. I don’t know what either of those are, Bert. I only know that people are dying, and I am scared out of my wits. It is as if God has sent a scourge to punish His foolish creations who insist on destroying each other and the human race.

Oh my darling, please forgive me. I know you are in constant danger, and I must not trouble you further. Please be careful. I love you.

P. S. I took some cookies to the Post Office yesterday, but Mr. Aubrey asked whether I was sending foodstuffs to you, and when I said I was, he told me he could not permit it because the contamination might spread further among the troops. Are you well, my dearest? Please, please, please write to me, I am frantic with worry.

October 9, 1918

Dear Bert,

My father was stricken with influenza today. He had been complaining of a headache all day Monday, but he has frequent headaches, you know, and we thought nothing of it. (Actually, I think we were all too frightened to accept it as the possible beginning of something.) But then, oh Bert, he just began to look so sick, I’ve never seen him look that way in my life. His eyes got red, and his nose was all stuffed up, and he had this terrible backache, and then of course the fever came and we sent for Dr. Henning who could not come until six o’clock tonight. There are only three doctors in town, as you know, and they’ve been making calls to other parts of the county as well. People have been taking turns driving them, and they’ve been sleeping in the automobiles between patients, and working around the clock. Dr. Henning told us on the phone to give Daddy quinine and aspirin, but that didn’t help at all, and when he finally arrived, poor Daddy was burning alive with fever. He had him removed at once to the McIver place down-peninsula, and we will not be allowed to see him until he’s better because the house has been quarantined.

As I write, I can see through my window to the Emerson porch across the street, where funeral services are being conducted for Louise Emerson, who died last night. It is forbidden now to keep the bodies of victims in a closed room where others might become infected.

I am so frightened.

I have to make this short, my darling. Meg is in tears, and I must go to her.

I love you,

Friday, October 11

Oh my darling!

A treasure trove of mail today! Fourteen letters from you, only two of them dated, and the same postmark on each of the envelopes, so that I had to read them all through once, and then sort them out as best I could and read them through a second time in sequence. (One of your letters said you had no idea what day it was. Just keep safe, Bert, and keep writing to me, and I won’t care if they’re all dated September 31st.)

I know you’re in the Meuse-Argonne, even though you’re not permitted to say. The newspapers are full of nothing else. There is talk here that the war will be ending soon, that this offensive will be the one to break the German resistance. I pray day and night that this is so. I have bought a huge map of France, and I have been trying to follow the advance, figuring out loud to myself — Nantillois is where Bert must have been when he wrote this letter, and this one was written in Cierges, and this is where he fell into the stream, Gesnes, trying to be with you, my love, trying to share it with you.

We have not been allowed out of the house since Daddy took sick, but we have been in telephone contact with the emergency hospital. It is so difficult to get through because so many families have sick people there, but we managed to talk to Dr. Henning early this afternoon. He said there has been no change in Daddy’s condition. The fever is still with him, and there is nothing we can do but wait and pray. What cannot be cured must be endured, my dear Bert. When they took him away Wednesday, Meg began screaming and yelling, which didn’t help matters at all. We are very much aware of death in this town, it has become a frequent caller. As they carried Daddy out of the house unconscious, I think all of us felt we might never see him alive again, God forbid. And Meg gave voice to our fears, hitting at the men who were carrying him out on a stretcher, their faces masked, silent in white, while across the street we knew Louise Emerson, thirty-two years old and pregnant, was dead. We gave Meg some hot milk and put her to bed, but I heard her whimpering in her sleep all night long, and the sound was a reminder of what we all had felt when we saw Daddy so helpless that way.

I am absolutely exhausted, my darling. It has been a difficult few days. Thank God I’ve heard from you at last, and know that you are safe and well. I am going to take some aspirin now, and then go upstairs to read your letters through again before I go to bed.

I love you,

Sunday, October 13

Dear Bertram,

I am writing this in Nancy’s stead, and with great trepidation. I know you will begin to worry if you do not hear from her as usual, but at the same time I don’t want to add to your burden by bringing you bad news. I must tell you, however, that Nancy has been taken sick with influenza.

It was quite sudden, Bertram. She went to sleep with a headache Friday night, and yesterday morning we had to send her to the hospital as her fever had gone up to a hundred and three degrees. She is still very sick, Bertram, and we are all praying for her recovery. I will write to you daily. I pray God that you are safe.

Yours truly,

October 14, 1918

Dear Bertram,

There is no improvement in Nancy’s condition. She is still feverish, and Dr. Henning fears that the influenza may lead to pneumonia. My father is recovering. It is our hope that he will be out of the hospital very shortly. This is his third day without fever, and Dr. Henning says he is no longer in any danger. We hope and pray that Nancy will have the strength to overcome this terrible disease as he did.

God keep you safe, Bertram.

Yours truly,

Clara

Tuesday, October 15

Dear Bertram,

Dr. Henning was here just a short time ago, and I’m afraid the news is neither good nor bad. Nancy’s fever went down to a hundred and one yesterday, but is up to a hundred and three again today. Her lungs seem clear, with no symptoms of either bronchitis or pneumonia, but Dr. Henning is afraid the influenza may have caused some other infection which he cannot as yet diagnose. I will of course let you know as soon as there is any further word.

My father came home today. He is still a bit weak, but seems anxious to get back to work.

God keep you safe.

Yours truly,

I received all three of Clara’s letters on the same day, October 21. It was the day after Timothy Bear got killed in the Clairs-Chênes woods. He had been lying not three feet away from me when the German shell exploded. We had both thrown ourselves headlong into the dirt seconds before it hit. Timothy did not get up after the explosion. He lay silent and motionless with one hand still clasped over the base of his skull, just below the protective line of his helmet. There was no blood on him, no scorched and smoking fabric to indicate he’d been hit. I thought at first he was merely taking a longer time than usual to get to his feet again. I crawled over to him, and I said, “Timothy? Are you okay?” and he did not answer. And then I saw the steel sliver that had pierced the top of his helmet, sticking out of the metal and the skull beneath it like a rusty railroad spike. “Timothy?” I said again, but I knew that he was dead.